


Hangovers Don't Hold Me Down

by gala_apples



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Car Sex, Hangover, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 03:05:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18437723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: Sid actually likes the feeling of a hangover. He's never told anyone, so naturally Tony knows.





	Hangovers Don't Hold Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my 'free' space for seasonofkink.

The truth is, Sid likes this feeling. The morning after, standing in the sun waiting for his ride, throat swollen from smoking a ton the night before, or limbs aching from repetitive movement on E, or head pounding from alcohol. He stands in the sun and sweats manically, hoodie jeans and hat getting soaked but if he takes off his sweater he starts to shiver. It’s a lose lose situation. Or, it would be, if he wasn’t a total fucking weirdo. Sid is probably the only one on the planet that likes the hangover feeling but oh well. He can handle not fitting in. It makes him feel real, like he’s done something, had an experience. There something cool about feeling so vulnerable

He tries not to show he likes being hungover. It’s sort of obnoxious to be happy when Anwar is puking before his morning prayer. Tony knows though. Tony always knows anything Sid tries to hide. Always has, always will. It’s part of what their friendship is built on; Tony being a mastermind. So of course he knows Sid likes it. Then he does these things that would be cruel to any other person. He bails on giving a ride back home and Sid has to scramble for a way back, begging friends, then acquaintances, then strangers. Or he insists that wasting all of the half drunk beer is a crime and makes Sid chug the swill of fifteen cans, getting him queasily drunk again. Or he’s very loud once they get home, making it impossible for Sid to nap and recuperate before work.

The worst (best) thing Tony does is treat him like a slag. Tony will stop the car half a block away from the party, double parking. Technically it’s double idling, but Tony tends to not be in the mood for semantics. He’ll talk some crap about the expense of gas, the exchange of favour for favour. Sid doesn’t really listen to the speech. He’s heard it a dozen times and it doesn’t much change. Instead he just lets himself feel it. The panic. The way he can feel every nerve in his body fluttering or aching or throbbing. He doesn’t get to go home if he doesn’t do what Tony says. He could take a bus, but he won’t. One lesson that’s been made utterly clear to him living in London is that free things are better than things that cost money, since they’re few and far between. If he thought Tony would accept it Sid would consider squatting. Abolishing rent would be one less expense. But Tony would laugh him out of the room for even suggesting it. Instead they live together, off campus. Tony is far too cool to put up with dorm living. 

Today is even worse than normal. Or better. Sid always has trouble deciding if he should label things like he wants them, or how society sees them. It’s a better from his kink perspective, and worse according to practically everyone else. Tony’s in a mood, from the minute they leave the flat together. Sid can see what’s coming down the line. Maybe not the exact make and model of it, but he sure the fuck knows a semi’s about to barrel him down.

There are ways he could not set himself up for failure. The obvious one is securing a ride home with a friend. Except really, he wants the failure. So Sid makes up excuses. He lives far enough from Maxxie and Thomas that asking for a ride is an inconvenience. Besides, they both have early morning starts, which means they usually don’t pass out at a party. Meanwhile Sid fully believes that the best parts of a party don’t happen until just before dawn break. So he stays until eight am, like any sane partygoer, drinks so much he can’t taste the vodka anymore, and watches a girl piss into a gerbil cage. Fuck only knows where the gerbil is. For all he knows, some loony bloke’s stuck it in the microwave.

Sid’s gazing lovingly at the couch -it only has two people sleeping on it, he could probably stretch across the top of the backrest- when Tony approaches. Sid lost track of him a few hours ago. It’s nice to know he hasn’t left, but that doesn’t mean what’s coming next will be kind, or pleasant.

“I’m going,” Tony announces. Despite inhaling what seemed like several grams of pot last night -rumoured to be laced with coke, but when Sid took a hit he didn’t feel any different- Tony’s voice is no worse for wear.

“We’re going?” Sid asks hopefully.

“Well, we would have been, but you bloody reek. There’s no way you can get in my car. I’ll go to the diner on Gallagher, get some eggs. Air yourself out and meet me there.”

“Yep, he knew Tony was in a mood. Sid tries to suppress his wretched excitement and just asks, “stay there ‘til I get there?”

“I’ll order you a coffee.”

See, and that’s what really matters to Sid. Not that they’ve lived together for years and he hasn’t been called boyfriend. Not that there’s a ninety percent chance Tony fucked a girl at the party last night. It matter that Tony indulges the worst parts of him, and takes him home, not anyone else.

It’s rough, getting down to Gallagher. His neck is weaker than normal. It feels ridiculously hard to keep his head up. When he raises an arm to massage his neck though, he realizes his arm is shaking. Sid lets his arm fall down and keeps putting one foot in front of the other. They feel oddly detached from his body. The one time he tries going faster than a walk, he nearly swoons.

Finally though, the diner is on the horizon. If Sid can just make it another block, he can sit down. He tries to focus on the distance being eaten by his footsteps, not how gross and sweaty his feet feel in his socks. No sense in getting hard before he has a mate to do something about it.

The diner is blasting air conditioning like they’re trying to host a snow carving competition. The sudden temperature change makes Sid cough, and once he coughs once it’s a solid minute of gagging and trying to keep all his booze in his stomach. By the time he’s done the waitress waiting to seat him is just staring at him.

“Stop making a scene and come sit down,” Tony calls from his table. If anyone wasn’t looking at Sid before, they certainly are now. Sid slinks to the table, tail between his legs. It’s such a relief to not be standing that he actually sighs as he crumples to the chair. And there, in sharp contrast to Sid’s collapse is Tony, sitting tall and perfectly groomed. 

Tony’s like ice. And not because of the cold demeanor thing. That’s too simple, and anyway they’ve been friends too long for Sid not to see through the aloof. More like he’s a cube. He can be thrown into any murky fucked up situation and still end up floating on top of it. You’d never guess he did a fuckton of drugs and slept on a floor or didn’t sleep last night, unlike just about everyone who’ll be leaving the party today. Tony’s a glacier in other ways. Because sure he looks beautiful, and a person has to be blind to not appreciate it, but sometimes morbid curiosity makes you want a chunk to fall off so you can see what’s inside. The terrible part of Sid can admit there was a teeny bit of satisfaction in post-bus crash rehab Tony. Even street ice works. Others trying to wear it down and tame it with sand, but ice triumphing to make another person slip. Sid hasn't done spectacularly in English -ie: he’s near failing it, like he’s near failing every other course- but he thinks ice is a fitting metaphor. Unless it’s a simile. Sid can never remember which one is ‘like’ and which one is ‘blank as blank’.

Tony’s like ice, and Sid likes that he’s perfect and beautiful and indifferently cruel. Those traits fit Sid’s needs. He already knows things are going to be good when Tony passes him a mug of coffee. One sip proves Tony bought it the moment he walked in the diner, it’s utterly lukewarm. Sid takes a second sip, to use to slosh it around his mouth and get rid of the stale alcohol taste, then puts the ceramic down.

“You ready to go?” Sid doesn’t want to settle in, get complacent. He wants the strain of what’s coming next.

“Desperate, aren’t you,” Tony replies, smirking. He tosses his wallet at Sid. “Go pay the bill.”

It’s embarrassing, doing Tony’s bidding like this. It’s embarrassing and he’s hard, because this shitty behaviour is the best kind of foreplay. No wonder Tony didn’t last with Michelle. The more self-respect she gained, the less this crap worked for her. Sid stands waiting at the cake display for a staff’s attention, and after he’s finally able to pay, heads directly outside.

There’s no one else in the parking lot. Not that it would matter, honestly. Sid doesn’t get these opportunities every night. A stranger looking through a windscreen at the wrong time isn’t a factor for him. If that shows low morals, well, so did dating Michelle when Tony was in rehab, or stealing Chris’ body, probably.

“Are you going to puke if I fuck you?”

“Don’t think so.” It only happened once, and it’s one of those things that should never be mentioned again, so naturally Tony brings it up every time he wants to get a jab in.

“Well, Sidney, you drank quite a lot last night. And I don’t need my car smelling. So just in case, we’re going to have sex with your head out the window.”

The position is pretty brutal. Sid’s arms are even less interested in holding him up than his legs were. They begin to shake almost immediately. And then there’s the matter of said legs. There’s not enough room on the backseat for four, so Sid’s left ends up hanging awkwardly in the footwell. It’s not even in a decent bracing position, it’s just useless in a way that Sid’s pretty sure is going to lead to cramp. But the worst part is how the window frame jams into his chest. There’s no question that he’ll have a long thin bruise tomorrow. Well, relatively thin. Each time Tony thrusts Sid’s chest drags up and down, maximizing the area under pressure.

Tony fucks him like a king. There’s a kernel of concern for his subjects, but ultimately it’s his needs first. And yet, Tony’s so practiced that it’s nothing to him to make it perfect for Sid. Sid’s glad Tony can’t see his face, because he knows he has the stupidest bloody expression. If Tony started ridiculing him for it, this would all be over too soon.

Unfortunately all things need to come to an end. Even painful things. Even fantastic things. Tony manages to get a hand on his cock, and dig a single fingernail into his clock head. That’s absolutely it for every bit of Sid. He comes, arms collapsing so he ends up spraying his own stomach. Not to mention practically strangling himself on the door frame. His toes curl, and he’s not surprised that the sudden movement makes his leg leg cramp, nor that the burn of it forces another stripe out of his cock.

Tony pulls out, shuffles back, and opens the car door. Next thing Sid’s knows, the drivers door is opening. 

“Hurry it up, Sid. The faster you pull your pants up, the faster you can be at home, napping.”

Sid refuses to believe that Tony doesn’t care about him, in his own way. Not after moments like that. It might not be love, but does it really need to be?


End file.
